Signs of Life
by nice disguise
Summary: Neal is receiving strange messages. Who's sending them and what do they mean?
1. Reflex

**Title:** Signs of Life  
**Fandom:** White Collar  
**Author:** nice_disguise  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** 1.14 Out of the Box  
**Word count:** ~17500  
**Characters:** Neal, Peter  
**Genres:** angst, mystery, hurt/comfort, friendship  
**Summary:** Neal is receiving strange messages. Who's sending them and what do they mean?

**A/N:** Set some time after the season one finale. Many thanks to my beta Enfleurage.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Reflex**

Numbers. They're static. They can be manipulated but only by being replaced with other numbers. The numbers themselves pretty much mean what they say. Neal likes numbers, likes working with them, because it means there's an end result, a solution to be found, something concrete, definite, non-revocable, _safe_.

He likes words more, because they're the opposite. Words are bendable. Their meaning depends on the person who says them, on how they're being said, on the person who hears them, on his history, the situation, the mood. Words are the conman's tools. A single one can be enough to throw someone off his game. More of them, used in a conversation, can manipulate a mark into doing things he wouldn't normally do, if you're good, without him even knowing. Neal is good. Words can control people, Neal can control words.

Certainly not the other way around.

But now he's staring at this form he's supposed to sign, and left to the signature field where his name is written out to mark his row, it says "Heal Caffrey." It's just a diagonal line that somehow ended up horizontal, but it sends his mind into another place. That is, until the courier who's holding the form on his clipboard, points out that precious seconds are being wasted.

Neal apologizes, signs the form and takes the envelope he's receiving in return. He drops into his chair in Peter's office and his fingers start investigating. The envelope is blank on both sides and unusually light. There can't be more than one sheet of paper in it. He takes a letter opener and makes it through half of the top, when he feels Peter's eyes on him. It's not exactly a feeling so much as knowledge, because Peter most definitely witnessed the incident with the courier.

Neal looks up. Peter is sitting in his chair, hand on the mouse, and is indeed staring at him without even trying to hide it. Any other person in the office would read his facial expression as nondescript. Neal hopes it's concern and not pity.

"You want to go home?"

"No."

The answer leaves Neal's lips almost before the question was asked. It's highly suspicious and they end up in a bit of a staring deadlock. But really, what would be different at home? If he went home, would Kate be alive?

He feels sorry for the anger he develops towards Peter, because he knows it's misdirected and meant not for Peter but rather, what? The world? All he'd be able to do at home is slam a fist against the wall and hope that somehow it hits the world and by definition also its vicious inhabitants that are responsible for her death.

He tries to resume work on the envelope when Hughes enters the office and says, "Burke, I need the two of you in the conference room."

Neal ponders why Hughes only says Burke and not Burke, Caffrey. Maybe to further constitute that he's the criminal, the lesser one. Not an independent individual but someone who's attached to the one named Burke. Someone who walks three feet behind. To be fair, it's what he's doing right now.

When they enter the conference room, Jones and a couple of other guys from the unit are already there. Neal finds a free seat, sits down and realizes that he took the envelope with him. He flicks it onto the table where it promptly vanishes under one of the file folders that Hughes is handing out. Neal is unnecessarily happy that he gets a folder of his own.

Hughes notices. "Caffrey, this is serious."

Neal looks up and examines the situation. Hughes is the only one standing, and with both hands at his hips he's making a good showing of _serious_ indeed. This must be as serious as it can get, about as serious as your girlfriend dying in a plane fire. Neal looks back down at the folder, a bit ashamed because: anger, misdirected. Maybe it's not the worst advice to start healing.

"What's the case?"

"Identity theft. We got word of a group of people who are selling identities of recently deceased individuals, mainly those who died well before their time."

Neal swallows, and whatever it is that he swallows, it goes right down into his heart.

Someone else asks, "Obituaries?"

"No." Hughes pauses. "Cemeteries. It seems they're talking to relatives and friends to get additional information. On what, we don't know, but we received reports from cemetery personnel seeing the same people on consecutive days, speaking to mourners all over the place. It was enough to connect two cases together."

Neal pretends to read the case file. In the corner of his vision he sees Hughes eying him, and now he really tries to read it but finds it difficult with even just a thin film on his eyes.

"Caffrey, we need your talent. You pose as," Hughes stops, then corrects, "you go in as someone visiting a grave and when you're approached you get some information. If it doesn't warrant an arrest on the spot, we should get something to further the investigation."

"No." Peter steps in, apparently upset enough to use a command tone with his superior. "Someone else can do it."

Neal doesn't exactly want to thank Peter since he's more than capable of speaking for himself. Only he doesn't. Peter is already coming up with various reasons why Neal shouldn't be the one doing it, and that's exactly why Neal shuts him out and diverts his attention to a fly on the table. He watches it running from the hands that shoo it away and thinks he might run too.

When Peter is done, and a sigh from Hughes indicates that he's giving in and moving on, Neal picks up the envelope and opens the rest of it with his finger. Carefully he unfolds the sheet of paper and finds that it's mostly blank, safe for a single word in the dead center. He identifies the font as Times New Roman at a size of twelve points. The word is _insist_.

He looks up. "I'll do it."


	2. Reactivity to light

**Chapter 2: Reactivity to light**

It's kind of a funny sound, Neal thinks, as he listens to the squishes that his shoes leave on the rain-soaked lawn. It beats thinking about the people who are buried beneath it. It's still raining and the place is being deserted by the ones who can still decide to walk away. Neal adjusts his hat.

The squishes come to a halt at a tombstone. He tries to blink it out of his sight, but it doesn't work. Instead he directs his attention to a car in the distance, the one that's occupied by Peter and Jones. They're sitting warm and dry, sheltered from weather and unpleasant memories.

They're probably chatting, eating deviled ham, occasionally taking their binoculars into greasy fingers to look at someone who seems suspicious. This time, for once, Neal is not suspicious. Here he fits right in.

He doesn't even have to fake the tears. He takes off his hat, hopes the rain will dilute them, but there's no walking away from this. He considers touching the stone, the only thing that's left of her, but it will be cold and lifeless. A squish later, his expensively clad knees are digging into grass and mud. _Sorry, June._ Most of all, _sorry, Kate._

What else is he supposed to do at her grave than direct his anger towards himself, be irrational and feel sorry for introducing her to a life of crime, something that down the road led to her death? There's no denying it. Stripped down to the essentials, she died because of him.

"Kate," he says with much sorrow in his voice. He wants to continue but then remembers that he's wired to the teeth.

_Kate, did you bring me here?_ The hope is as grounded as a hand reaching out of thin air, but he wants to take it anyway.

Instead a hand touches his shoulder. He startles and gets out from under the touch. When he stands up, he stumbles a bit on the slippery ground and growls, "What do you want?"

He realizes it's not the best way to make friends with a possible suspect, but he doesn't really care and the anger isn't even misdirected. Whoever this guy is, Neal has every right to be angry because he's exploiting people at their most vulnerable, when they still have mud on their suits.

Neal studies the man's face and observes the corners of his mouth twitching, as if it wants to form a word. Something is off. The corners of his eyes are twitching too, as if his whole face is moments away from lighting up with a smile. And that's really not a good sign, at least not in a place like this.

Neal turns his head about two inches sideways and pretends he's only casually looking in the direction of Peter's car. He doesn't know why he's doing it, but it doesn't matter because the car is gone.

There's no time to wonder what happened, because now there's a coat-clad arm coming around his neck from behind, putting him in some sort of choke hold. His own hands come up reflexively to pull at the arm, while his mind struggles to come up with more effective tactics. Until he feels a sting at the side of his neck.

On the bright side, the decision to fight is no longer his to make. He can do nothing but let go. He takes one last look at the man in front of him, now sporting the predicted grin. Then the head vanishes, followed by the torso, legs and feet, as Neal's eyelids close.

Vaguely he notices being carried away. It's kind of a nice feeling because the weight he has to bear is now on someone else's shoulders.

* * *

Neal senses his mind coming back to awareness. The pressure on his chest is back, but at least he's lying on something soft. It's nicely dry, but the air is hot and sticky and filled with the sound of his breathing.

He opens his eyes and sees nothing, more precisely, absolute darkness. It rarely means there's nothing there. Darkness can be vast or constrictive, depending on how far you're willing to extend your hands.

Neal isn't afraid of the darkness or the unknown. He likes to explore. His hands reach out to the sides but hit something solid right away. It's covered with a soft fabric, but the softness doesn't obscure the fact that it withstands all pressure. Neal's hands trace it upwards.

When the hands meet, he knows he's lying in a coffin. The darkness is trapped as much as he is. And that's what Neal is afraid of.

He tries to open the lid but to no avail. He tries shouting for help but hears nothing other than a dulled echo of his own distress. He tries hoping for the kind of luck that goes by the name of Peter.

He searches his clothes and finds that he's been stripped to the undershirt. All wires are gone, all wireless lifelines too. Not that he expected anything different.

What he didn't expect to find was a lighter and a pen. It's not the wisest idea to light a flame in a coffin with limited amounts of oxygen, but he needs to face the misery. He takes a few shallow breaths to prepare and flicks the lighter.

It's still a coffin. Only right above him he sees a word, smeared on the white fabric with thick dark charcoal. The word is _rot_.

His thumb slides off the lighter and the darkness slips back in. He knows the word is still up there. Three letters can have a lot of meaning. He's not just a threat to the civilized world; someone from his own side, but one who doesn't share his beliefs, wants to end Neal's existence with little tact and a lot more cruelty.

It's dark but Neal can see the irony. The final resting place is what every living being dreads. Total confinement. In here the last thing on his mind is rest, peace or safety. If found dead he may be buried beside Kate, but he still might end up at a different place than she did.

Now Neal wants to reconsider that decision to fight. He decides that rapid breathing is not a sign of panic but lack of air. He decides that his way to fight is to stay calm and collected and find a way out. It's what he's good at.

Whoever the people are that put him here, they gave him a lighter and a pen. Why the pen? To let him write his goodbyes?

A pathetic whimper threatens to escape his throat and Neal wipes a hand across his face to suppress it. He's rewarded with the discovery of a film of sweat.

The people may be the ones who sent him the letter, the words that brought him here. If the minds of his adversaries bear resemblance to his own, they're brilliant but twisted. Intelligence doesn't equal respect for life, but they could be creative enough to make this a challenge. They may want him to do something or say something or promise to do something, to gain his release. Entirely possible, sufficiently plausible.

_Heal. insist. rot._

"Anagram?" he whispers into the confined space. He lights up the flame again and likes to think it flickers with hope.

Over, under and in between the _rot_ he writes the individual letters and creates new words, searching for something of significance. He thinks _Neal_ or _steal_ might get him somewhere, but the remaining combinations don't make much sense. The whole attempt gains nothing and steals precious time and oxygen.

He turns off the lighter and watches how the imprint of the flame fades from his retina. The darkness greets him again, but he senses it has a hidden agenda. Neal isn't afraid of the unknown, he's afraid of the things he knows. He will have to make friends with the dark, so it will keep him company when he dies.

Peter is not going to come. Neal may even have put him in danger by firmly ignoring all warning signs. He didn't want to investigate the letter because he likes a good mystery, likes to believe in hidden meanings and chooses not to accept the world as it is. He thought that's who he is. He thought he needed these things, that without them he'd already be in a coffin.

Neal bangs his hands and designer shoes against the coffin walls. They're solid and real, unlike the hope that clouded his mind, the hope that Kate was reaching out for him, whether alive or dead. But hard coffin walls are equally hurtful. Now he needs all the hope himself. It takes a while to spark, and the darkness struggles to keep its place, but the flame lights up.

He puts pen to fabric and starts anew. He rearranges the words, tries to force a result, a solution. He tries to get a meaning, a sense, as the air loses substance with every minute. He has trouble keeping his hands and his hope up, his eyes and his mind open. He's starting to feel lightheaded and finally has a reason to question his sanity.

The bad guys may not have sent him the letter. The words may not be an anagram, and he may be too complicated for his own good. It's quite the simple concept. It only requires a single word. Denial. He can't accept that he will die trapped, can't accept that he can't escape the end.

He can no longer write his goodbyes because it requires strength he doesn't have. The only words of meaning will be the ones engraved on his tombstone. "Neal Caffrey, thief. He took more than his share of air."

Now Neal's afraid of the darkness, because it wants to rob him off the one thing he truly and rightfully owns. The most complex, most undervalued of possessions.

The flame flickers with his own rapid gasps for air. There's no more ground for hope, yet it's all he can hold on to. He tightens his grip around the lighter and realizes that his sanity is the first to go. The flame will consume the last of the oxygen. But then again, hope always drains from life, and that's why it dies last.

He stares at the letters above his head. All he sees is an abstract painting of despair. He can no longer comprehend what is right in front of his eyes. _This. is. not. real._


	3. Body temperature

**Chapter 3: Body temperature**

Neal wakes up into a lot of light, but he isn't going to be fooled that easily. When his eyes adjust, the bright white fades into a realistic shade of wall paint. No heavenly afterlife. There's a clock on the wall and a clock is probably exclusive to earth.

Also, heaven would employ a better cleaning company. The corners of the ceiling and the linoleum floor turn out to be a bit dirty, more than a hospital room should be, but that's definitely where he is right now.

On second thought, being a criminal and considering how warm he still feels, it could be some form of hell. But the sheet beneath him feels damp and sticky and that's more of an earthly kind of torture. Neal wonders why hospital beds are harder than coffins, but then again, life is harder than death. Still, he's glad to have escaped the latter.

His body feels stiff and his neck hurts when he turns his head for further inspection of his surroundings. The light seems to originate from windows located on the wall behind him. The room itself is spacious, there's various medical equipment, another bed, unoccupied, and oddly, there's a desk. What bothers him most is the space to the right and left of his bed. There's nothing there. No one.

He knows he can't really expect, can't demand someone being there. He doesn't feel the tracker on his ankle, so he wants to see whether there's a tag on his toe. He lifts his head and sees that his feet, along with the rest of his body, are covered with a thin blanket. He tries to push it off, only to find out that he can move neither hands nor feet. They're being held in place with something soft, but the softness doesn't obscure the fact that it belongs to restraints attached to the bed frame. His intended exploration ends here.

Neal shouts for help and chokes on the single word. His throat is dry and sore. The coughing, however, gets a doctor to enter the room. Her clean coat and genuine smile are now the two brightest things in the room. She looks a bit surprised though.

"Mr. Caffrey, I'm glad to see you awake. You had us worried."

"Why?" he rasps.

"I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. Can you tell me what year it is?"

"2010. What-"

He breaks out into another cough and finds a plastic cup pressed against his lips. He wants to ask her to free his hands but the water is already being poured down his throat. He swallows the embarrassment and a couple of sips, before he tries again.

"What's going on?"

Her face contorts into something that Neal can't quite decipher.

"You were pretty out of it for the last two weeks. You had an accident when you tried to escape."

_From the coffin?_

"The report says that you fell, but- you know what happens when the guards find out they've been played. You were first admitted to a hospital and once you were stable, you were transferred here, a more secure facility than the last one."

He's in prison.

"No, I made it out," he says as a statement.

"According to your file, you made it out briefly on your first escape. This was your second."

He's a file.

"No, Agent Burke had me released," he says as more of a command.

She looks around as if she's searching for something to sit on, but there's no chair.

"You had a serious concussion and I'm afraid your mind is playing tricks on you. You received four more years after your first attempt, but this time they're not going to be that gracious."

His eyes travel to the ceiling, wide open despite the light, but he knows the only thing that might blind him is denial. _This is not real?_ It was merely his own mind talking to him? It made up the coffin as an end to its fantasy? All of the FBI, all of _Peter_, was a stage play in his head? It means that Kate may have gotten a second chance, but he himself never received his.

His throat hurts when he starts yelling. "This is not real" and "I want out" have about as much effect as his twisting and pulling at the restraints. The attempts to gain control of his own existence do nothing but result in the loss of his usual composure and eloquence, which only drives him further apart from himself.

When the doctor's pleas to get him to calm down turn into orders, Neal realizes that his body is beginning to hurt as much as his mind does. Making matters worse is a pain at the inside of his elbow.

"No, I need to find the way out. Please."

The unknown substance enters his system. It's a bit odd that drugs are supposed to ground him to the harsh reality of the here and now.

He sinks back onto the scratchy pillow, and that's the best of all things unpleasant. He feels weak, defeated and controlled. It's certainly not like that other time when he was drugged and burst into- no, that didn't happen.

Now a blurry Peter appears at his bedside and Neal manages to get his point across with whiny mumbling. "Why didn't you get me out of here? You're the only one I trust."

Peter looks at him with a facial expression he doesn't recognize. "How could I ever trust you? You're a criminal and you will always be. It's simple. You escaped, you're back in prison. You escaped again and this time it's for good."

"You think I deserve this?"

"You thought you deserved more than others. Now you have less. It's called justice."

Peter touches his shoulder. Neal's heated skin makes the hand feel cold and Neal wishes it wouldn't.

When Peter vanishes, Neal vanishes too.

He can't go with Peter. Instead he finds himself on a beach at the Côte d'Azur. With sand under his feet and a breeze against his skin, it doesn't bother him that he has no real idea what the Côte d'Azur looks like.

His gaze settles on a carefully constructed sandcastle near the waterline. It's a beautiful and complicated structure with windows and archways and turrets. He can't keep the waves from washing over it until it's lost completely.

Then there is Kate, playfully tipping her feet into the waves. Neal observes her for a while and wants to take a picture because he knows she'll fade away too.

As he's being pulled back, he has a first-hand account of how creative a mind, how detailed an imagination can be, how real it can feel. The beach and the sea morph back into a sink with a running tap and Kate is the doctor washing her hands. The smell of sea air is now disinfectant.

Neal witnesses how a future of endless possibilities is being washed down the drain. How life is cleaned of its sense. It takes a little more time to dissolve itself, like when someone close to you dies and it's impossible to imagine that they're simply gone. Is he supposed to believe that he killed Kate in his own dreams?

He clears his throat. "Did I get any visitors while I was here?" He's sorry for startling her.

She grips the towel that she lost. "No."

Neal's hands want to move to his face, but they're bound. He blinks a couple of times, then keeps his eyes open to let them dry.

He clears his throat again and asks, "What's your name?"

She grabs a few items and comes over but somehow the gap between them stays the same. They're in different worlds. She _chooses_ to be here.

"Dr. Bowden," she says and guides a thermometer under his tongue.

_Right._ Keep it professional. No conversation.

When the device breaks the silence, she takes it out and enters the numbers into a chart.

If he found out too much about her, he could use it to exploit her. After all, he's a criminal and they're all the same. In here, anyway. Also, emotional distance adds nicely to the concept of confinement and punishment.

The only touch he receives is with the cold end of a stethoscope.

"I want you to take deep breaths."

He wants to, he tries, for her. "I can't."

"Hm."

Still, she seems convinced that he's alive and then appears to want to leave, but Neal doesn't want her to. His hands are no longer of use so he has to rely on words and charm to keep her. He wonders whether the charm will work because he's drenched in sweat and he has no idea how often he's been washed and shaved.

He plasters on his best, widest, fake smile that can usually hide everything unpleasant and says, "I was free."

She looks at him, but it's with pity.

His smile fades a little but turns into something more genuine.

"Peter Burke got me out and had me working with him, at his side, solving cases. We made a good team, locked up a lot of-" The words close off his throat.

His chest rises even though it pains, but he needs to get it all out at once. "I'm not one of them. I don't belong here. This isn't me." He's willing her to believe him, emphasizing with wide and innocent eyes.

She clicks on her pen, puts it into her coat pocket and says, "Mr. Caffrey, Agent Burke is not going to get you out of here, and it's best for you if you accepted the reality."

Neal's smile is completely gone. He has no idea what his face looks like without it.

It might be good that she's looking down at the chart, the one that's supposed to show his state of life.

She says, "I don't know yet where your fever is coming from, but other than that, your vitals are good. I'm thinking of releasing you to a cell tomorrow. But you need to be prepared, this time you're going to have a lot more restrictions."

She looks back at him with a half-hearted smile and it's not pity, it's something else. She's trying to help him, get him to think that everything's alright, to accept the orange costume, as if she wants to tell him _Hey, it's not that bad, you're alive._

Her hand moves in the direction of his, and he quickly grips the sheet to dry some sweat, but she only checks the restraints.

"I have other patients to attend to. Is it okay if I leave you alone for a little while?"

_No._ He nods.

When she's out the door, the only life left is a fly sitting on the desk. Neal's eyes linger on it, but it doesn't even twitch. He thinks it doesn't live up to its name and names it Amanda instead.

When there's nothing else to do, he can no longer ignore the answers to his questions that he dreads make perfect sense.

He made up a partner, a friend who preferred football and beer to the finer things in life, who didn't share any of his enthusiasm and missed no opportunity to oppose him. Neal considered someone like Mozzie to be a friend, but on the other hand, Mozzie lives in the world of deception and likes to hide the inconvenient truths in glorifying quotes.

Peter was an open book with words of plain and simple meaning. He was Neal's complement, balanced Neal while he made his first attempts to walk the line. They fought often but in the end Peter absorbed some of Neal's free spirit, however reluctantly or gladly, and in turn helped to keep Neal grounded, out of trouble, out of prison.

They were opposites, yet inseparable, only because they originated from the same mind? Neal trusted Peter, but Peter never fully trusted Neal, because Neal can't trust himself?

The real Peter might have been right to only trust his instincts. Neal will find a new friend among his own, outside in the yard, and he'll play cards with him and occasionally let him win so Neal won't end up in the center of unresolved anger issues.

He chose his way of life and it brought him to a place where conning people isn't a means to feel alive but a necessity to live. A place where it's best not to question moralities. But now Neal has no one else to do it for him.

"You'll find the way out. You have to keep looking. You don't give up, Amanda. You still have a choice."

Neal can feel the room getting warmer and sees that the sun is throwing window-shaped squares of light onto the opposing wall. It would have been a calming sight if the squares weren't divided by vertical lines.

He watches as the fly lifts off and makes an ill-fated attempt to escape, flying towards the light on the wall.

"No. That's not the real thing, Amanda. There's another way out. Trust me. There always is."


	4. Pulse

**Chapter 4: Pulse**

Neal stares at the clock. It's ticking and it looks like what a clock should look like, but somehow this one is different.

He never had an issue with clocks. They never harassed him to get up in the morning, they never stressed him to meet a deadline set by his boss, they never induced guilt because the wife was waiting at home with dinner on the table. He set his own deadlines and if the clock said that he had twelve seconds left before the automatic security system alarmed the authorities, he appreciated the extra pressure to get the job done right. He embraced the extra thrill for an even greater feeling of perhaps questionable pride and accomplishment, but that's half of what it's all about.

Neal stares at the clock. It's a bit dirty and rough around the edges. It's old, not older than time itself, but it has seen a lot. Unusual behavior, unusual people staring at it, wishing it to tick a little faster.

It must be a simple concept if it only requires two words. Not free. Yet it can affect an entire existence and span a lifetime. Neal survived his first stay at prison because there was an end date and an end scenario that involved falling into his girlfriend's arms and letting her soothe his hurt. Now the life he imagined, for Kate, for himself, found its final resting place right here, and it ended unceremoniously before it began.

Neal stares at the clock. Clocks shouldn't be allowed in prison because for some people the clocks are counting down towards the time when they end up in even smaller confinement.

He looks around the bed for a bucket. He can't find one and manages to keep the unwanted emotions buried inside. In return he gets a sick sense of happiness to still have control over something.

Neal stares at the clock again, not out of morbid fascination, but because its hands are the only proof that his life moves forward.

When the door opens, his gaze breaks away and he's relieved to find himself still among the living. Sadly, it's not the doctor entering, it's an orange-clad individual, and that term is a bit of an oxymoron.

Neal catches a glimpse of someone who's sporting a less branding uniform color but the guard stays outside. The door closes. The orange one gives Neal a quick once-over and walks to the empty bed. He sits on it, his narrowed eyes look everywhere but Neal, and that's Neal's chance to look at him.

Burly legs dangling down from the bed, arms crossed over his chest, head bald and sweaty and its diameter only slightly larger than that of his neck. He looks like what his life is reduced to, workouts and food. Neal shivers but only as far as the restraints allow. In twenty years, this could be him.

He never wanted to be one of them. A criminal, maybe, if there's no other word for it, but not one of _them_. There's a fine line that Neal will hold up for as long as he can, even if it's only in his own head and only there to protect his conscience.

He never wanted more than living out who he was. He thought it was the outside world that was caged. People in their 9-to-5 jobs, following a road paved by others, more of a daily circle. Caging their dreams to avoid hurt and regret? No Italian roast in the clouds. Those people may live free with bars in their minds, now he's the free mind living behind bars. But he won't be for long. Every aspect of his life will be controlled and aligned with his fellow inmates, from the brand of toothbrush to his daily activities, until one day he'll forget who he is.

But right now he's still Neal Caffrey.

"Hey, do you see an envelope somewhere on that desk?"

The orange one peers at him, grunts and makes sure that Neal gets the message that he's most certainly not going to look. But apparently he's bored enough to consider a conversation.

"You wanna write a letter?"

"No, wanna receive one."

Now, of course, the guy stares at him as if he's crazy, which Neal hopes he is, if only it guarantees a way out. Still, it was more comfortable when he was being ignored, because it meant that the two of them weren't sharing the same space.

The guy keeps staring at him and Neal decides to look around the desk on his own, from afar. He can't see an envelope. The only thing in writing happens to be on the computer screen. Neal squints. It looks like an electronic patient chart, unfilled, apart from the name field. There's one word typed in before the blinking prompt. The word is _Guy_.

Neal frowns. "Hey, is your name Guy?"

"No, it's Ray. Why?"

Because any aversion to clutching at straws is long gone. Because hope is the only source of strength that he has left. Because there could be a resemblance to the message he received earlier, whenever, wherever, if at all.

"Do you have an envelope on you? A letter?"

"No."

"Anything written?"

"I have a book. It goes where I go."

The orange one doesn't elaborate, just stares, doesn't even flinch.

Neal asks, "Which book?"

His eyes stay the slits that they are, but the corners of his mouth move upward. It doesn't take Neal long to weigh all possible outcomes. It comes down to choosing the least of all evils.

"Would you let me take a look at it?"

The answer is as quickly said as it is predictable. "What's it worth to you?"

Neal closes his eyes but only briefly so he can observe how Ray - no, _Guy_ is a better name, more generic, less personal - plays his part and comes over. Neal hates everything about this picture, a visual representation of polar opposites.

Even if he found the damn bucket, he couldn't possibly reach it. His radius has been reduced to zero miles. Neal's hands are bound, the guy's hands are free, and he uses them to pull down the cover, exposing Neal's bare chest, probably not just to show who's in control.

But now Neal knows why the blanket was there in the first place, despite his fever. To cover up the bruises, the markings left by the guards. Maybe others didn't want to see them, and for certain Neal doesn't want to see them either. They make him feel like what he is. Damaged, broken. He doesn't want another word added to that list and, practically on reflex, starts pulling and squeezing his right hand out of the restraint.

Guy doesn't notice because he has his own hand at Neal's chin, and it feels so wrong that it hurts. He's moving Neal's head as if it was a piece of meat. Neal fails to get away from under Guy's mouth, from his breath.

The orange one opens his mouth further to speak. "When you're all cleaned up, you'll make a pretty sight."

Neal's hand is almost free, but he has already dismissed plans A and B. Mercifully, the door opens, Dr. Bowden enters and Guy retracts his arms, acting like a kid awaiting a lolly from the doctor.

She frowns at the sight in front of her. Neal doesn't know whether she wants to act or ignore it. "Ray, today I'll be treating you in exam room two."

She holds the door open while Guy pulls a small worn-out notebook out of his jumpsuit.

"You want to take a look or not?"

Neal nods but convinces himself that his head did so by itself, without much consideration. How much is, in fact, the possibility to get his life back, worth to him?

Guy puts the book on Neal's chest with a little pat. Neal feels a stream of air tickling his ear before he hears the whisper.

"When you're back in gen pop, I'll come collecting."

He leaves the room, and all that is left on Neal's mind is _If you touch me again, I'll break your bones_. Vulnerability is still best defeated with violence. Neal stares at the closed door, knowing that it won't take him twenty years to become one of them.

He can't stay another minute. He pulls his hand the rest of the way out of the restraint and uses it to free the other one.

He opens the book and finds that the first page contains a single word, neatly handwritten on the upper half of the page. The word is _Diary_.

Neal frowns. Guy is a softy after all? If it follows pattern, if one word leads to another, he needs one more. Neal turns the pages and sees nothing but an endless stream of little vertical lines.

When he's through, he shuts the book and puts it back down on his chest, which is now rapidly rising and falling. Guy didn't write a diary, he marked off the days. A fine depiction of his life where the last stroke looks just like the first one.

Then the door opens and the doctor comes rushing back in. She takes one look at Neal, her mood a mix of anger and disappointment, but one she's used to.

"I knew this was going to happen."

She adds a shout that prompts a blue individual to barge into the room and run towards the bed as if Neal is a danger that needs to be contained. The guard secures Neal's wrists back into the restraints, uses so much force that it hurts and is finished faster than Neal can say _Human rights_.

What bothers Neal even more is the doctor at the medicine cabinet, filling up a syringe.

"No, you don't have to do that. Please, I need to think."

"Think about another escape plan? I won't have a guard in here, babysitting you 24/7 while you're plotting your way out."

She approaches the bed, tapping the syringe to get rid of the bubbles.

Neal says three things he never thought he'd hear himself saying. "I won't escape, I'll behave, I promise."

The guard holds Neal's elbow in place. Neal struggles against the grip until the doctor enters the needle and the drug into his vein.

Apparently his word isn't good enough and there is no one to blame for that but himself. And apparently the doctor has figured out the only way to contain Neal Caffrey: shut down his mind.

Neal's eyelids close halfway but he can still see the upper half of the door opening once more, and this time it's Peter Burke barging in, flashing his badge. He's at Neal's side in a second, mumbling, "Jesus Christ, what did they do to you?"

Neal's mouth doesn't cooperate.

_They didn't. I did._

He can't see much of Peter, but he feels a hand on his shoulder. It's still cold.

_Can you get me out?_

"I can't get you out on work-release, not anymore, not with that second escape on your record."

_I dug my own grave?_

"I'm sorry, buddy, you're on your own now."

Then he vanishes and Neal is alone among all other people. He knows what he'll write into his own diary. The same word that Guy wrote. The missing word in the anagram. _One_.

He holds on to it, because there's nothing else. _Guy, diary, one_. He closes his eyes to think, to solve the anagram, rearrange the words in his muddled mind, hopefully rearranging this miserable representation of existence.

Until he's brought back abruptly to the here and now when he feels the pillow being swiped away from under his head. His eyes snap open. The clock says that time has passed. There's no Peter, no guard, no doctor, but Guy is standing above him, pillow in hand, eyes slitted, nose wrinkled.

"Where's my book?"

Neal lifts his head and tries to find it. "I don't know. They must have taken it." His head falls back onto the mattress.

Guy enhances his growl with a dangerous hint of desperation. "I need it. To go on."

He hovers the pillow above Neal's face. Neal opens his mouth to shout for a guard but the shout is muffled as Guy brings the pillow down on his face. Neal struggles. After a couple of seconds Guy pulls back. Neal stares at Guy, Guy stares at him. Then, Guy's mouth changes into a wicked grin and there's an unexpected twinkle of wisdom in his eyes, as if he has figured something out. And then Neal has too. _You. are. dying._


	5. Blood pressure

**Chapter 5: Blood pressure**

The air he's drawing in somehow doesn't serve its purpose. He expects the instrument of the crime to be a misused pillow, but oddly enough he has an unobstructed view of the ceiling. It resembles the one in the prison hospital, but the ground that he's lying on is even harder than the bed. Where he is, why he's here and why he will no longer be, isn't of much concern at the moment.

The restraints are gone, the adrenaline is there and he should be able to leave, but the flight reflex doesn't want to jump from his mind to his body. The attempt to get up is nothing more than a twitch in his muscles, and not even the anger it causes provides the necessary strength. Neal's gaze moves along the white walls, hopping from one painting to the next until it settles on something momentarily more pleasing to the eye. An exit.

The exit, however, is blocked by a glass door, which he can only see because there are palms pressing against it. He can see a mouth opening and closing, he can't hear what it says, but if he were to guess, his name. Then he sees the eyes, widened in fear. And blue.

He says her name and can't even hear his own voice. He studies her face, and the pain in his lungs lessens. He watches her every little move, and it hurts more because he has missed it for too long. He swears to never again take his eyes off of her, but then his eyelids close against his will.

The next thing he's aware of is a mix of noises. A faraway voice orders him to breathe and he does. Another sound is less pleasant, it's artificial and periodic, but it's equally motivating. It turns out to be a familiar wail, more precisely, a security alarm.

While to others it might be a signal to investigate, to Neal it's a signal to bolt, and he hears the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins in much the same rhythm. But then the whole orchestra of sounds turns into a symphony when he feels her kissing him.

He kisses her back, wraps his arms around her, and it feels as if he found his own little piece of the world in this little section of time spent just with her. He wonders why he ever wanted anything more.

Then Kate pulls back, he opens his eyes and looks at her face that distracts so beautifully from the madness around them. She puts her hair behind her ears and Neal studies her features. She looks a little exhausted and the muscles in her face are twitching a bit but they settle on a smile.

"Welcome back."

He takes her hands and intertwines his fingers with hers.

"Do I want to know how I ended up here?"

Her eyebrows knit together. "You don't remember?"

Neal releases a shaky breath. "No."

She too releases a breath but it's an unexpected sigh of relief.

"You must have triggered the fire suppression system. The door closed and the oxygen got sucked out."

She moves to get up and winks. "Be glad that you've got me to get you out of trouble."

She picks up a paper roll from the floor and her eyes light up. "But _you_ got the goods."

Paper. It doesn't take Neal long to decide that whatever words there may be written on it, he will never even take a look at it. The other _realities_ may have ended as soon as he solved the anagram, but this one, this is real. The lack of oxygen must have played havoc with his mind.

"How did you shut down the system?"

"I found a control panel in one of the corridors."

Kate extends her hand to help him up. He reaches for it but doesn't once pull, careful not to bring her down. He straightens his sweater, his eyes never leaving hers.

"What year is this?"

She looks him up and down.

"Shouldn't I be the one to ask that question? It's 2010."

"Burke never caught me? I was never in prison?"

She shakes her head, first timidly, then faster. "No. But if you want to keep it that way, we have to go. The cops will be here any minute. Come on."

She runs into the adjacent corridor. As soon as she disappears around the corner the symphony ends and Neal notices his headache. He rests in the doorframe, dizzy and already out of breath. Then something catches his eye on the wall behind a painting. He wonders and concludes that he must not have known that a kill switch existed.

In between the sounds of the alarm he believes to hear her call his name. He moves around the corner and sees her waiting at the end of the dark hallway, standing in the bright light of a junction. Calling him without even making a sound.

Kate is alive and he is alive because of her. She's the very definition of life. She _is_ his life. The miserable state of his body is forgotten and he runs towards her. When she takes his hand he vows to never let it go.

They run past several rooms containing high priced objects of what looks like an extensive art exhibit. But Neal is only interested in the priceless object in front of him. Occasionally she looks at him, smiling widely, and he's sure it's because of him, not the heist, not the adrenaline rush, the overabundance of confidence or the roller coaster ride that is their lives.

Just before they reach another junction she stops and turns around to face him. Neal watches as another smile appears, but this time it seems to take her a bit of effort.

Her voice is soft and sweet when she says, "Close your eyes."

Neal shakes his head. "What? Why?"

She blinks a little more quickly than usual.

"There are rooms ahead with certain things that I know you'll want to acquire. But we've got no more time."

She adds a laugh and Neal knows that it's fake. She knows that he knows and her face turns serious.

"You trust me?"

Neal doesn't know what to make of this situation, but there is Kate, right in front of him. He gazes into her big blue eyes. They are still rimmed with the darkest of eyeliners because she says she looks like a child without it. Neal knows she does, knows her features that make her look as innocent as she is. And no one can tell him any different.

"Of course I trust you."

He closes his eyes and feels her hand pulling him along. After a couple of yards, he opens them back up. He sees what he most certainly didn't want to see. He lets go off the hand, slows down and the world is slowing down with him. It comes to a dead stop. He stares at a gaping bullet wound in a security guard lying dead on the floor.

Neal used to be most comfortable in gray areas. Now he has entered black and white and there is no turning back.

Kate grabs his arm but she no longer has a pull on him. She resorts to shouting.

"We need to go."

Neal breaks his terrified gaze away from the bloody figure, turns towards the love of his life and pulls her into a hug. His hands move down her back to feel for the gun and find it stashed into her pants.

He breaks the embrace and tries to keep his voice as calm as he can. "Did he threaten you? Was it self-defense?"

She looks at him, her features now undecipherable and she doesn't answer.

He tries again. "Did you shoot him so you could get to me and save me?"

Now she yells. "Not here, we need to get out."

She runs. Neal walks, then runs too. The dead body is out of his sight but not his mind. He's running after this graceful creature and has no idea who she is.

They hurry down a couple of stairs, head through a fire exit door and run onto a street at the side of the building. When they reach the car Neal grips her shoulders and keeps her from getting into it.

"I need to know what happened."

She looks at him, but it's with pity. "Baby, how much of your memory did you lose?"

She wants to touch his forehead but Neal won't let her.

"Tell me."

The annoying alarm is being replaced by police sirens wailing in the distance and she looks in their direction. He shakes her shoulders lightly, doesn't want to hurt her but wishes it would shake the truth out of her. He never wanted to hear a truth as much as this, as much as he dreaded it.

Her gaze switches nervously from the parking lot entrance in front of the building to Neal's eyes and back. She speaks because she knows that she's not getting out of here otherwise.

"We knew sooner or later we'd have to use a little more force."

He just found her. He doesn't want to lose her again because she's changing right in front of his eyes. Neal holds on to the image he has of her in his mind, tries to keep the two together, tries to fill in the blanks with a whole lot of _pleasant_ and _sweet_.

He closes the distance between her and him, so she can no longer avoid his eyes. He looks into hers and tries to see what he wants to see.

His voice is shaking. "You shot him?"

She swallows but her voice stays calm. "He threatened me. But I didn't shoot him. You did."

His hands, the ones that fired a deadly shot, slide off her shoulders.

"No, I would never... You're lying."

Now she's yelling, because of anger or maybe just the sirens. "So you think you wouldn't do that for me?"

Tears fill her eyes. "You really think you triggered that fire system by accident? You didn't even go for the kill switch."

Neal steadies himself against the trunk of the car. Truth is heavy, truth hurts and apparently truth separates not only from others but from yourself. Until you learn to accept, because there's no other way.

He yanks the paper out of her hands and unrolls it to the sound of her screeching.

"Careful! It's worth a fortune."

It's a painting. He turns it from one side to the other. Apart from the painter's unreadable signature, there's nothing. No hidden message, no words.

Confused she adds, "Alex agreed to fence it. Small fee, rest of the cash is ours."

Neal doesn't react, doesn't even blink. She continues. "We've made enough to start a new life in France. If we leave now, everything will be fine. I promise."

Neal puts the painting back in her hands and guides her into the driver's seat.

"We've been caught on security cams. You go ahead, I go get rid of the tapes."

She drops down behind the wheel and looks up at him, eyes wide, uncertain. "You'll never make-"

He kisses her. Then he frees himself from the grip he didn't realize she had on him. When his lips leave her mouth and his hands leave her cheeks, he doesn't look at her. When he slams the car door shut, he still doesn't look at her. He wants the last image of her to be something of his choosing. She might not have killed, but this isn't the woman he loves.

The police cars enter the parking lot as Kate speeds off in the opposite direction. He watches her go, and it feels as if something is ripped out of his chest. Kate or what he needed her to be. What hurts most is the wound that now lies open because it was underneath it all along.

Neal drops down to his knees. It takes all his strength to put his hands behind his head and interlock his fingers. His gaze moves upward to the sky until he senses movement around him. Several men, those that are encouraged to carry guns, surround him at a safe distance, weapons drawn. Neal chuckles because they're offering him a more appropriate way out.

He doesn't fully realize what he's doing until they start shouting, "Hands back behind your head or I'll shoot."

Neal is more upset by the realization that his hands are shaking, when usually they are steady even in the most stressful of situations.

It's not a bullet that sends a shock through his body. It's a shout for his name that gets him to halt the downward movement of his arms.

Agent Peter Burke steps into his sight. Neal's gaze follows his shoes, the calm and steady walk, coming to a halt in a wide stance, a few yards away but right in his line of vision. Peter places his hands at his hips, jacket opened enough to show the holstered gun. His face tries to hide the surprise. His voice is steady.

"I've been looking for you."

Neal mimics his calculated speech. "I know. I was hoping you were. But it's not quite the reunion I imagined."

Peter doesn't deviate from his authoritative expression. "You carrying?"

_You know I don't like guns._ Neal bites on his lips and looks at everything but Peter, doesn't care about all the signs of lying that he might pick up on. Peter is the only one who can change his mind.

"Yes." It's the simplest of all lies.

"So you want to put that decision in someone else's hands?"

He expected this, the coward card, the guilt-trip. Neal doesn't know how much Peter knows. He doesn't know whether Peter thinks that prison is a better punishment than death, or cares enough to think that Neal doesn't deserve to die.

He looks back at Peter and hopes to scare off the terror with a smile. "This could be it, you know, the solution. The way to end it all."

Peter stares at him, his face unmoving for a long couple of seconds.

"It's not. The Neal Caffrey I know doesn't take the easy way out."

But what if he does? Then maybe a dead guard is merely a momentary lapse in Neal Caffrey's judgment and not the lengths that he's willing to go for a life with Kate.

Neal swallows, then looks Peter straight in the eyes.

"I thought you learned the lesson a little earlier than me. Don't assume to know me."


	6. Emotional distress

**Chapter 6: Emotional distress**

The list of things that he has lost starts with Kate. Neal assumes it will end with his life, he just doesn't know when. He knows the list will expand today, no entry unexpected, most interesting their order. Neal is yet unsure about adding _trust in himself_ but it probably goes hand in hand with the loss of his mind.

The latest addition is his sense of time. There's no clock in the interrogation room. It contains only the minimum of needed objects, nothing distracting from the crime. Apparently the standard issue is one table, two chairs and himself sitting on one of them, hands cuffed behind his back.

He's being guarded only by a camera, left alone to think about the things he has done, as if there was a way to stop thinking. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched and his breathing strained.

He has another list, reasons for anger, but he has no target other than himself. If he were to give in to the anger, he would need to add confidence and possibly dignity to the list of things that he has lost. Hypothetically, he could be angry that he can't figure out what's happening to him. He could be angry that he can't deny the possibility that this is real. That he let Kate's and his own wishes lure him into a situation where he was forced to kill someone to save her. He could be angry that he let Peter talk him out of his plan. It was admittedly equally well thought-out, but it might have ended all this madness and at worst, if the madness was real, allowed him a well-deserved death.

Now he has no more means for self-inflicted justice, but he can rely on Peter to do the job. If it's needed, he wants him to. What Neal wants even more is have that little sense of comfort that Peter may provide, but it comes with a risk. Having given himself into Peter's hands, he has given him all control, all power to decide his fate.

As the door opens and Peter enters, Neal feels nothing but trapped, exposed and worst of all, guilty. He sees that his hands carry documents and not the glass of water that he requested when he was put here. It may be a sign that Peter already decided that Neal shouldn't be allowed to make requests. Not ever again.

Peter settles into the other chair and drops the stack of documents on the table. He uses a little more force than needed so he doesn't have to say it out loud: This isn't something to be taken lightly.

Neal hardly manages to hold his gaze. He looks at Peter's hands, observes them straightening his orange dotted tie and coming to rest on the table, only not relaxed, not comfortable. Neal's gaze wanders to the camera that is mounted on a tripod, aimed directly at him, and it's intimidating but less so than Peter's eyes. Neal bows his head.

He likes to cloud himself in an aura of rumors, secrets, hidden agendas, different personas, smiles and charm, but in here, with Peter, he's stripped of everything that deflects and protects. He's afraid that if he looks up, he'll see his own reflection in Peter's eyes.

As Peter speaks, there it is, between professional composure and a bit of pride and relief over his capture. That hint of shock and almost fatherly disappointment.

"I didn't expect to find what I found when I went into that building. I don't even need to be here. You have stepped up the ladder. I will no longer be handling your case."

He knows Peter, knows his integrity and knows that he's the only one he wants to be judged by. Neal looks him in the eyes and wants to tell him that the only thing he remembers doing is swearing to never cross a certain line. But wanting and swearing may not be enough.

His throat is so dry it hurts. "I'd really like to have some water."

Peter doesn't react, just stares at him.

Neal continues, annoyance misdirected but inevitable. "What, is this interrogation 101? Did you turn up the heat too?"

He observes Peter's hands again as his fingers start tipping on the stack of documents. Other than that he stays calm when he speaks.

"The thing is, there's not much to interrogate. I know you're not going to confess to any of the crimes we can't prove. And this thing you pulled today not only tops it all, you handed it to us on a platter. Armed robbery, second degree murder."

He pulls the top three documents off the stack and places them on the table in a neat row. Neal focuses on Peter's hands until they vanish under the table and he can no longer ignore the evidence. It's three grainy, black and white surveillance camera photos. They show an image sequence of a guard being shot down with a gun that happens to be positioned in Neal's hand. It doesn't exactly look like a thrilling theatrical showdown, it looks raw and real, and apparently a life can be extinguished within three frames. The victim's and his own.

Now at last, Peter drops his act and looks as disbelieving and appalled as Neal does.

"I didn't think you were capable of doing something like this. At the very least you should have been smart enough to know that when you start adding a gun to the equation, one day it's going to get used."

Neal studies the pictures once more, but they haven't changed. He searches for clues that could indicate that this isn't him, but there doesn't seem to be a way into a world that Neal agrees with. There are no words, only a bunch of frame numbers and no other meaning than finality.

Did his mind make up a different story of his past because it couldn't handle what he did? Did it make him go to prison to suffer for what he did, make him work for Peter to redeem himself?

Neal is almost surprised by how quietly he speaks. "I don't remember doing it."

Peter counteracts by yelling. "Excuse me?"

Neal wants to mimic Peter's anger but he doesn't have the strength.

"I remember a different chain of events, starting five years ago. You caught me and put me in prison."

Peter laughs as it was to be expected. "I wish I had."

"Yeah, me too," Neal states flatly and earns a raised eyebrow. "I know that you don't believe me and probably never will. I have no idea what supposedly happened in the last couple of years," he pauses because his tongue struggles to form the words, "who I've become."

With Kate gone Neal is stripped of the future, now he's stripped of the past too, and that unrecognizable part of him that is left is being eaten by guilt. He wants someone to tell him who he is and he wants it to be Peter, because Peter is the only one he trusts to tell the truth.

"I'll tell you. Considering this little charade of yours, it looks like you're making that final jump from genius to insanity. In the last few years you became even better at what you did which is, of course, taking what isn't yours. Some would call it becoming greedier, but I think there's no such thing as a modest thief. Who decided that it was time to up the stakes? You or Kate?"

"I don't know."

"Should we call this a natural conclusion? You took a life, Caffrey."

Peter bends forward and Neal lowers his head, trying to avoid Peter's gaze, not even trying to hide the shame.

Peter won't let go. "Should we say _thank god_ he didn't have a wife and kids?"

Neal stays quiet. He can feel drops of liquid rolling down his face and doesn't know, doesn't really care whether they're sweat or tears.

It seems as if Peter is the one to care. His voice hitches up a notch. "You look like hell, you're short of breath. What's up with you?"

Peter settles back into his chair, his posture a delicate balance between concern and professional distance. "The other agents think you're faking it. To get out of here."

Neal shoots him a look, basically the only aggressive move he's still capable of. "Do _you_ think I'm faking it?"

"I don't know _what_ to think. I don't recognize you anymore."

Neal snorts. "Makes two of us."

They're both silent for an awkward minute. Then Neal starts shifting uncomfortably in his chair, trying to keep the handcuffs from digging into his flesh, up until Peter eyes him suspiciously. It doesn't matter, Neal wants to break the silence more than the chains. He wants to ask Peter why he's still here, but he's afraid that if he does, Peter finds a reason to leave.

"How's Elizabeth?" he asks, honestly.

Peter inhales sharply, and it takes a while until he releases that breath and speaks. "She left."

Neal swallows hard and there's a moment in which he embraces that it hurts. "Was I the reason?"

"I wish I could blame it all on you. But apparently it takes three people to end a marriage."

Now it's for Peter to avoid Neal's gaze, and for Neal to study Peter's face. Neal would like to say sorry, he doesn't remember for what, but he'd like to make something all right. He wants to talk to Peter about all the things that happened, but this isn't the Peter who will agree to a nice long conversation over drinks. This might not even be the Peter he knows. He has darker rings under his eyes and deeper frown lines and less spark in his eyes. Well, he still wears the suit.

Neal stifles a hysterical laughter, but all other emotions are too strong to handle. The only kind of release he gets is a painful coughing fit.

Peter yells in the direction of the door. "Can we get some water in here?"

Neal hardly notices how someone enters and places a glass on the table, because he has to focus on getting his breathing under control. After the door closes, he eyes the water, thirsty, throat hurting, but it's a bit ironic because his previous desires placed this simple desire out of reach. He can't possibly get the glass with his hands cuffed.

Peter, of course, knows that. "This could be a trick. I come too close, next thing I have the sharp end of a paper clip pressed against my carotid artery."

The water is forgotten because a sore throat hurts less than Peter's words.

"I'm not like that."

"Who knows. You apparently don't."

There's no way of denying Peter's logic, only the setting it's in. Neal looks around with glassy eyes, and he spots something small and black on the file stack. It's a fly. Neal frowns. If he blurts out _Amanda, is that you?_ he could indeed plead mentally unstable. But the irony is, even if he himself believed it to be true, no one else would believe the liar.

He's alone in this. Well, the fly shares his fate. Fates, to be exact. Neal realizes, the fly was on the conference room table and the hospital room desk. It was were the _words_ were.

The lights start flickering. Neal doesn't yet panic because they return quickly, and because Peter is eying him with comforting reliability, as if Neal was somehow responsible. Maybe he was. Neal ignores the silent accusation because he may need to act quickly before the lights go out for good.

"Can I see the other files?"

"Because you want to find out who you are?"

"Because I know this isn't who I am."

"No one knows who they are. Isn't it our actions that define us?"

"Right. The only conscious action I took was sitting there, waiting to be brought to justice."

"Really? It looked like Kate left you hanging. And considering that message we received..."

Neal's body tenses. "What message?"

He watches Amanda running off the stack as Peter extracts an envelope from it.

"This was delivered for you, to this place, via courier. My guess is it's from Kate."

Peter unfolds the sheet of paper and puts it on the table, covering the surveillance pictures. Neal straightens to bend forward and sees three words in the dead center: _Cash all mine._

He chuckles. "It's an anagram." It already feels like a victory.

Peter looks at him, but it's with pity.

Peter wants to show him that the truth can't be bent, no matter how desperately he tries. Neal would like to differ, if only because the words are his only way out, and because words are _his_ way out.

With no pen, no hands really, he has to rely on his mind. He starts the process, extracts, rearranges, but it's getting hard to concentrate. It feels as if the temperature is rising even higher and there's not enough air to breathe. He feels dizzy, his eyelids keep falling shut, or maybe it's the lights that flicker, it doesn't matter. Neal senses a familiar darkness that wants to fill the room and take his consciousness.

He doesn't know whether the anagram will help him escape, or only help him see how he's dying. He's not ready to die, not yet, not when he doesn't know what will be left of him when he's gone.

Neal speaks, asking, not yet begging. "Can you help me get out of here?"

When Peter answers, there's no pity, suspicion or annoyance, there's honesty. "I can't do a single thing for you."

Neal opens his mouth, then closes it again because he sees Amanda lying on the table, on her back and twitching. It's hard to say it out loud, even when you're not gasping for air.

"This is it. This is real. I'm dying. I know you're the only one who can help me."

Peter seems unaffected by the dying fly, by the loss of air in the room, by him.

"How can I be sure that this isn't yet another one of your cons? It's not like you did anything to earn my trust, Neal."

He feels as if a weight is crushing him and he no longer has anything to set against it.

"You don't need to trust me. But, please, believe in me."

He feels as if he's losing the last of his strength and he no longer has anything to keep him upright. He holds onto Peter's steady gaze and pleads, "Don't give up on me."

He sees that Peter opens his mouth, then closes it again because Neal is sliding sideways off the chair. He lands harshly on the ground, lying curled up, hands still cuffed behind his back, wondering whether it's his fate to die in chains. There's a tingling sensation in his muscles and a stinging in his nerves, and he knows that no one will come to make this any easier. He hears himself wheezing and is grateful when the sound moves farther and farther away.

When his body stops struggling, his mind goes on, not to find a solution, to make a list of his final options. One: don't accept, fight, die fighting but angry and resentful. Two: let go, die gracefully, be thankful for all life's wonderful moments and the people you've met. Three: let it hurt, for all the hurt you have brought upon others, it's the only thing you deserve. He knows he can no longer make decisions when he feels the pain. He wants to cry and shout, but his body won't allow what can't sustain him.

The lights start flickering again. He sees Peter above him, extending a hand, and then hesitating. Neal doesn't care, he doesn't look at Peter's hands, he no longer avoids Peter's eyes. He waits to see a sign of forgiveness, but then the lights go out, and the darkness is unforgiving.

He doesn't know whether his eyes are open or closed, whether he's alive or dead. He wonders whether it's the last decision he's allowed to make. He's afraid, not of death but to die alone.

Then, there's an unexpected companion, a shout in the distance like a beacon in the darkness. It's a single word, repeating, desperately, tiredly. Peter is searching and Neal has found - the anagram, the truth that is changed, the meaning that has a sense, the solution. _Call his name._


	7. Response to pain

**Chapter 7: Response to pain**

Neal can't tell whether the darkness is seeping into him or is expanding from within, perhaps its origin all along. He's afraid that he won't notice when it takes him over, but still, the silence is worse than the darkness. Darkness means there might be something out there beyond of what he's able to see, something he can believe in and hold on to. Silence means that Peter has stopped calling.

Neal shifts onto his knees, somewhat surprised that he has the strength to do it. But when he calls for Peter, there's less strength and more despair in his voice, because it may not matter anymore how loud he calls. He may have figured it out too late. He may have failed. There's no price, no reward, no life back with a bow. There's no more heartbeat pounding in his ears either, no pain in his lungs from gasping for air, no weakness from exhaustion. And he's grateful only for the fact that he can still be frightened of this.

Is this real, in his mind, or somewhere beyond what he could possibly imagine? The interrogation room - a place between freedom and prison, a place between life and death? Was that his evaluation? Neal wriggles his wrists and winces when he finds the only source of pain that's left. He's still bound, not with handcuffs but with something else he can't identify. He maneuvers his legs through his arms to bring his hands to the front. He can't get rid of the ties, but he can use his hands for something else. He stretches them out in front of him and starts walking through the darkness, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, somehow afraid to reach the edge of an abyss.

What he finds on the ground is a tiny light, red and blinking in a steady beat. It could be some kind of message, a symbol, but for once, he wants it to be nothing but a blinking red light. He kneels down to inspect it and beams when he feels the familiar outlines of his tracking anklet. This is the reality that he had hoped for, that he had wished to be real, despite everything, or because of it. _Peter, I know you're out there. Please keep looking for me._

His life may hinge on the bond between them, the one that stretches and thins whenever he strays too far. Could this be the time it broke? Is the blinking light, the cut anklet nothing but a symbol after all, for a connection severed irreparably? He knows he should put the anklet down where it was and use it as a point of reference for his search in the dark. But he clings to it, doesn't want to let it go.

The fingertips of his free hand are the first to find a promising end to the darkness. They trace along a damp and dirty wall of stone and stop at something cold and metal. It's a door. Exit or entrance? As he grabs the doorknob, he realizes that his hands are shaking. He shuts his eyes tightly to quench the tears that are forming unsolicited. This isn't the way he wants to step through that door, whatever awaits him on the other side. He opens it and gets blinded by a bright light, but he prefers it to the darkness.

He walks through and his eyes adjust to the light. He sees a sun shining brightly in a beautiful blue sky, but it's shining down onto an unworthy scene. He walked out of a dirty old warehouse. The street he's standing on is lined with even more dirty old warehouses, and the whole place seems deserted. Still, the oddest part is that it evokes a strong sense of familiarity. One thing is most familiar. Among the old trucks and cars parked on the street, there's Peter's Taurus.

Neal runs towards it, bangs his hands against the doors and peers through the glass, but he finds no one inside. Perhaps it's just another symbol, a hollow promise of salvation. He calls for Peter again, twice, until he chokes on the name. The silence is still unnerving. He studies his reflection in the windows of the car, somewhat grateful to be wearing his favorite suit.

If this is hell, he's certainly overdressed. Only the bruises around his wrists disturb the immaculate appearance, marking him as a tainted soul. He's not bound with handcuffs but with cable ties, which are maybe less symbolic but painfully digging into his skin nonetheless. Neal's hands start shaking again and he has a hard time holding on to the anklet.

He wonders whether in this world he's allowed to get rid of the ties. He wonders whether there are rules, those to follow or those to break, whether he's a player in his own game or in somebody else's.

It's not so much free will when he starts walking towards a little construction site some hundred yards away, but because he spots movement there. When he approaches the site he stares into a deep dark hole in the middle of the street, possibly dug for pipes that are being laid. The asphalt surrounding it is roughly broken up, revealing a shallow pit of sand, and in that very spot there are two boys playing. Neal doesn't much wonder anymore. He's grateful for the company.

"Hey, I hope you two are careful not to fall into that hole. It looks pretty scary, doesn't it?"

The younger of the two looks up at him and responds promptly. "I'm not scared."

The older one looks at his friend and rolls his eyes. "But you should be."

A fear is starting to grip Neal, but he doesn't yet want to give in to it.

The boys return their attention to the objects more interesting than Neal. The young one is building a sandcastle, the older one has drawn streets around it and is playing with cars. Neal sits down onto the asphalt at the edge, takes a closer look and notices that the older boy is playing with a police car.

"Is that your favorite?"

The boy nods. Neal studies the other boy's sandcastle, a complicated structure with windows, archways and turrets.

"That's beautiful." He can't hide the tremble in his voice. "Do you want to become an artist?"

The boy looks at him with a proud and winning smile but he shakes his head. "I want to live in it."

Neal feels his throat constricting and doesn't know whether it's his emotions or because he no longer has a say in this.

The older boy isn't too pleased with his friend. "You have to grow up. You know you can't have everything you want."

"Why not?"

The older one sighs but his tone is not condescending, it's concerned. "There are rules."

"Why?"

"To protect other people."

"I don't like rules."

"But you like people, don't you?"

The younger one's face doesn't show what he's feeling, whether he understands or not, whether he doesn't want to give up his dreams or just doesn't want to lose an argument.

The older one keeps his stern expression. "If you break the rules we can't be friends anymore."

"So?"

"That means if you fall into that hole, I'm not gonna pull you out of it."

Then, Neal hears the sound of shattering glass. He looks around but can't see where it came from. As he looks back he sees that the younger boy used the distraction to steal one of the toy cars and is running away.

He bolts upright and yells, "No, don't do that. Come back here." It's more desperation than outrage.

The older boy holds up his hand and speaks calmly. "It's all right. He has to learn."

Neal drops back down, taken aback by the boy's wisdom. "You're not going to chase him?"

It looks as if the boy wants to leave, but it might be Neal's own doing. His vision is swimming and he has to work hard to move the boy back into focus.

"I will. Later."

"You'll give him another chance?"

The boy breaks his gaze to look at the castle. "He's a good kid. Eventually he'll make the right decisions."

He conjures up a pair of scissors and cuts Neal's ties. "He can put his skills to good use."

Neal looks down at his trembling hands, regretful, thankful.

Finally he dares to put down the anklet but only to get rid of his jacket and tie. The sun is burning mercilessly and he feels the heat and exhaustion creeping back into his body. He knows what it means, but it might be only the beginning of the end if the world that he wants doesn't want him back.

The boy notices his distress. "You don't have to worry. You know the solution."

Neal ponders, unsure, unbelieving, undeserving. "Riddle?"

He earns a sad smile. "Why are you doing this to yourself? No more games, Neal, no more hiding the truth. Not from yourself and not from me."

Neal nods obediently, as if he's receiving advice from a wise old man. "Okay."

"You can breathe now."

"What? I am breathing."

"No, you're not."

As Neal frowns in confusion the boy takes his police car up to eye level and inspects it from all sides.

"You know, it says a lot where you are. Whether you're the driver who has all control but all responsibility, the passenger who has to trust the driver to lead the way, or the criminal in the back seat who has no more say."

He peers back at Neal over the top of the car. "You need to decide where you want to be. Or you'll end up at a place far worse, in your very own kind of prison."

The sight in front of Neal is dimming rapidly, but he holds on to the voice of the boy.

"The good thing is, in your world you still have a choice."

Neal's eyes close and he drops to the ground. He's lying flat on the asphalt, his body heavy, depleted, aching, and there's a weight pressing down on his chest. Then the weight lifts and Neal gasps. When he opens his eyes, the light is blinding.

"Come on, Neal, breathe."

Whomever the voice belongs, the person's hands leave Neal's chest to tap against his cheeks.

"Who'ryou?" Neal croaks out in a somewhat defensive manner.

"What? It's me, Peter. Deep breaths, Neal, come on."

He relaxes and complies with Peter's orders, though it takes a lot of effort.

Neal wonders if the air in this world will be what brings him back to life.

His eyes adjust to the light to confirm that the voice belongs to the Peter that he knows. The one that he so desperately wants to trust. There's also a top half of a warehouse in his sight. Neal can't yet think about what it all implies, because he's more concerned with the implications of Peter fumbling for his cellphone.

"No hospital," Neal rasps, his throat dry again and hurting.

Peter's features show a flow of emotions, from worried to disbelieving to upset. "Give me one good reason why not."

Neal tries his best to hold onto Peter's gaze. "Please."

Peter is still set on the upset expression and starts dialing. Neal's heart sinks.

"Jones, I found Caffrey. Tell Ruiz we have a case and get forensics down here. I want to have that bastard locked up for attempted murder."

At least briefly, Neal's relief wins over confusion. Peter ends the call, perhaps because he can't talk with a jaw clenched that tightly. He looks around as if he wants to be someplace else. Neal gets dizzy from the sight alone until Peter puts a hand on his shoulder. His voice drops the command tone.

"Okay, we'll make a deal. If you stay conscious and drink a full bottle of water, no prison."

Something clamps around Neal's heart. "No prison?"

Peter's face doesn't much change but his eyebrows knit together. "What? I said no hospital."

Neal swallows and looks away, a bit ashamed to find his mind in anything but pristine condition. He almost wishes he were too far gone to notice, because it leaves him feeling vulnerable and dependent. A bit the damsel in distress to Peter's knight, but somehow that seems less of a fairytale than the fed that doesn't make him feel like a criminal.

"Deal."

Peter pats his shoulder as if he wants to say 'You're doing good so far' or maybe 'Stay where you are' because the hand lifts from his shoulder and Peter leaves. Neal doesn't want to stay where he is. He fears that once Peter is out of sight, he's out of mind.

Physically he's even more exhausted than mentally. He manages nothing more than rolling his head to the side, but it's sufficient to witness Peter running towards his Taurus. Neal wants to keep staring to see whether Peter returns, but he gets distracted by the items lying on the ground. There's his jacket, his tie, a pocketknife, cut cable ties and a cut anklet. He turns his head to the other side and expects a construction site, but there's an unknown car, a crowbar on the ground and a few glass pieces on the driver's side. Peter could learn a thing or two about lock-picking.

When Neal's gaze wanders upward, he sees the opened lid of the car's trunk and then Peter with a bottle, coming to a halt as if he wants to leave skid marks on the asphalt.

Neal feels as if he's disturbing the urgency of the situation, but he has to ask. "What happened?"

Peter sounds exasperated. "What happened? You were in that trunk for hours. With little air, and it was hot as hell in there."

Neal is inclined to believe Peter, but he doesn't quite want to believe that hell fits into a trunk. Was all of his pain self-inflicted?

Peter asks, demands, "Tell me what year it is."

Neal feels like laughing and crying at the same time but he manages neither. "That's not going to help us."

Peter wriggles his hands under Neal's shoulders and stops only briefly to shoot him a look that can't quite decide between annoyed and concerned. It settles on strained as he pulls Neal up into a sitting position. Despite Peter's unexpected gentleness, Neal's body does not approve of the change in position.

Peter isn't very pleased that Neal goes limp in his arms, judging by the fact that he starts to shake him. It might not be the best of ideas. Neal's head rolls back, his eyelids flutter shut and he stares at the familiar face of the darkness. He fights it with everything he's got, willing it to go back to wherever it came from. He has a deal with Peter and intends to keep it.

Neal is glad when he hears a heartbeat, something to disrupt the silence. He starts counting it to keep his mind from drifting away. The numbers are adding up fast, the beat is quicker than it should be, but it's steady and strong. Neal cracks an eye open and sees that Peter guided Neal's head to rest on his shoulder. Peter's soothing voice can almost make Neal forget and forgive the overly harsh terms of the deal.

"Hey, stay with me."

Neal mumbles, "I might."

He feels the mouthpiece of a plastic bottle tapping against his lips and notices that Peter has some trouble steadying his hand. Neal doesn't know whose fault it is exactly when the first sip lands on Peter's shirt and the second goes down but ends in a cough. Eventually and with a lot of pauses they conquer the bottle.

Neal wonders if the water in this world can replenish all that he has lost.

"Is Kate dead?"

The question takes Peter by surprise almost as much as it does Neal. Peter though, seems more worried than confused and puts a lot of sadness into his tone. "Yeah."

It's a bit of confirmation, because apparently this world isn't too good to be true.

"How did I end up in that thing?"

Neal is glad that his voice no longer showcases the grind he's been put through, but as he turns his head towards the trunk, it's either the movement or the memory that causes an onset of nausea and dizziness. Peter realizes more quickly than he what he needs, because he already eases Neal back down to the ground. He puts Neal's jacket under his head while Neal can't do much more than whisper an insufficient 'Thank you.'

"Do you remember anything of what happened today?"

Neal remembers a lot but only what he'd like to forget. "No."

He wouldn't object to hearing a different story, under one condition.

"But if you can't make it plausible I don't want to hear it."

Peter looks as if he reconsiders the hospital, or perhaps its psych ward, but Neal knows that he's being cut some slack when Peter tells his tale.

"Organized Crime had a big fish sitting in interrogation. Ray Bowden, known to be involved in everything from large-scale identity theft to murder. They thought, this time, they could link him to the murder of a banker and his private security guard, but the evidence turned out to be inconclusive and the 48 hours were running out. They had nothing to pin him on, so they got one of his workers to spill that a painting snatched from the banker's home was stored in that warehouse over there. Bowden, of course, claimed it to be a cheap copy. Ruiz and his gang brought us in and we got a search warrant. You were the only..." Peter shifts on his spot, "...expert available on short notice to verify the authenticity of the painting."

Neal can hide a smirk from Peter but his eyebrows betray him.

"Oh, don't get carried away with yourself. While we're searching the warehouse for the painting, you wander off into an unguarded section - probably looking for some other treasures - and drop off the face of the earth. Some of Bowden's henchmen must have turned up to grab you. We thought they took off with you. The only thing they left behind for us was your anklet. I've been carrying that damn thing around with me all day."

Peter is speaking slowly, as if the memory alone is exhausting him, as if it's a memory he too would like to forget.

"We went back to headquarters, grilling the guy, checking traffic cams, following every lead we had, came up with nothing. Some people thought you were long dead, some others thought you cut a deal and ran. I thought this was the one time I wouldn't find you."

Slowly but surely, and unstoppably, Peter works himself up to anger.

"I came back here with Jones. We combed every inch of this place but didn't find anything. I sent him back eventually. I stayed. I don't know. I had a hunch, I guess. When I searched again and walked by that car I heard you call my name from the trunk. You could've died, Neal. You should've found a way out of those ties, out of the whole damn car."

Neal knows by now that anger is easily misdirected in the absence of a target.

"I think they drugged me with something. I hope."

Remembering the goons from the cemetery in his dream, his hand moves subconsciously to his neck. Peter promptly grabs it and holds it down to inspect the neck himself.

He clears his throat and his voice drops all tones of accusation. "Yeah, there's a little mark."

Peter hasn't yet let go off Neal's hand, but Neal isn't quite sure whether he even notices. Peter's face forms a cautious smile that almost manages to cover all the signs of exhaustion.

"It's a pity they didn't give you the stuff that made you sing. I would have heard you a mile away."

Neal mimics the smile but mostly because now, there's an awkward Peter who seems to have found an excuse for the hand that he's holding. He inspects Neal's wrist.

"I guess you did try to get rid of the ties. They dug pretty deep into your skin. We'll have to bandage this."

Peter carefully puts the hand back down to the ground.

Neal wonders if the Peter in this world will be able to overlook where his wounds came from and help him heal.

He takes a deep breath in preparation because he wants to tell him the truth, hoping that it is indeed the truth. "I had these dreams. Nightmares."

Peter looks at him, not with pity, with concern. "Kate?" He pauses. "Prison?"

Just two words, simple and cutting, rolling off Peter's tongue so easily, but it takes Neal a long time for a wordless nod. He shifts uncomfortably on the ground, struggling with a question that came suddenly and won't let go.

"Do you think I did my time in prison? That it was enough? That I suffered for my sins?"

Peter's eyes narrow. Maybe he's seeing a criminal again, and Neal regrets the question.

"As with anyone else, it depends on what you're going to do with your life once you're out."

Neal's eyes narrow too and Peter adds, "I don't want to see you back in prison, Neal. You don't belong there."

Peter pats his shoulder again, and Neal still doesn't know whether it means 'You're doing good so far' or 'Stay where you are.' Maybe both.

Peter pushes himself up from the ground. "Well, you're not going to prison, you're going home. I'll bring the car around."

Neal's eyes want to follow him but some tears creep into them. He can't decide whether it's because of the scene that just transpired or the fear that it was still only playing in his head. He blinks a couple of times and looks upward at the sky, savoring the moment. The sun is setting, and shades of red are entering the blue, forming a beautiful picture. To Neal it looks like a painting of freedom. A key ingredient for life that's as easily overlooked as air or water. Or hope.

He rolls himself onto his belly, then gets up on all fours, suppressing a groan that only he would have heard. He manages to overcome the persuasive pull of the ground, stands up and crosses the small distance to the trunk of the car. He clutches the rim, somewhat afraid to fall back into it. He searches the dark interior and finds what he was looking for. Then, at last, he knows that this is real. Lying in a corner, there's Amanda. Neal nudges the fly with his fingernail, but it stays dead still.

"Help came too late for you, huh?"

He doesn't know how much of what happened to him was the drugs or the heat or lack of oxygen or even divine intervention. His worst opponent was his mind. It might have tried to tell him what was happening, tried to tell him a lot of things, or it found the only way to make him hold on.

He feels his hold slipping from the edge, but Peter is back to steady him.

"I'm fine," Neal says as he fights to stay upright even with Peter's help.

From the look on Peter's face, he most definitely doesn't believe it.

Neal tries again and looks him straight in the eyes. "I will be."

Neal believes it. Then Peter does too.

"I'm really tired though." He starts rubbing his eyes, only to have an image appear before him. "Bits and pieces are coming back to me." He snorts weakly. "I think some of the men's faces made their way into my dreams."

Neal turns serious within a moment. "If I can identify them, can we book the bastards for what they did to me? Have something good come out of this?"

Peter draws in a shaky breath, but when he responds he seems convinced enough.

"I just talked to the forensics team on the phone. They'll be here any minute. They'll do their magic, and when we find the guys that did this, we have them turn on Bowden. To be honest, I'm glad we won't be getting them on murder."

Neal, too tired to crack a smile, lets Peter guide him to the Taurus' passenger side. He holds on to the opened door, not yet ready to go back into a confined space without making it a conscious decision. He watches as Peter collects their things from the ground and puts them on the backseat. There's Neal's jacket and tie, the empty bottle, the knife and there's the anklet. It's still blinking, showing a severed connection, but it's going to be repaired or replaced, maybe even with a stronger one.

Peter shuts the rear door and turns to Neal. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah. No. I just remembered something."

Neal bows his head and would like to shuffle his feet, if he weren't desperately needing them to stay firmly on the ground. He speaks slowly and avoids Peter eyes, although he believes that in his current condition, he could say pretty much anything without fearing consequences.

"You know what, Peter, you gave a kid a new playing field. The little games between us, I might not be able to stop playing them. But on the other hand, you'll have someone you can reform and turn into good. Doing the right thing, helping others."

When he looks at Peter he sees him pondering but not for long.

"You think that's why I won't give up on you?"

Neal feels a smile tucking at his lips. Peter returns it but quickly puts a hand on Neal's head to push him down into the seat, making sure that he doesn't knock his head in the process - just as if Neal was a freshly arrested criminal. Neal believes that Peter does it now for a different reason. Also, criminals go into the back seat. As Peter shuts the door, Neal briefly checks where he's sitting. He's practically on the same level as Peter.

His partner eases into the driver's seat and closes the door. Neal closes his eyes and makes himself comfortable in his seat. He feels a bit uneasy when Peter reaches over and fastens his seatbelt, but then Neal drifts into a much needed sleep.

_Trapped. Safe._


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Neal wakes up into darkness once again, he bolts upright and is relieved to see a faint light that's able to penetrate it. He drops back onto the bed, the light now settling gently on his surroundings, the familiarity of his apartment soothing the anxiety.

The dark spots of obscurity dissipate, but they leave his mind painfully clear. The nightmares he endured are getting less detailed with every waking minute, but they leave traces, bruises on his soul, or uncover them.

He knows he'll hide them the way he'll hide his wounded wrists under his sleeves, so he can go back to work as if nothing happened. He doesn't remember how the bandages got around his wrists, how he even got into his bedroom, but he's grateful that Peter kept his end of the deal, even if he himself might not have. And somehow he's grateful that he can't hide his wounds from Peter.

Neal gropes for the cellphone on the nightstand but finds only empty space, reminding him that the bad guys weren't so kind as to leave it behind. He looks at the alarm clock and then lies back down but can't yet close his eyes.

It's midnight. A new day among the living, and it means that he's free and able to make this day different from the one before. Still, the exact number is a bit unsettling. He looks back at the clock until he's sure that time moves on and it's one minute after.

_One_, Neal thinks, a number, yet it carries a lot of meaning. _One_ can mean that you're alone. _The One_, a fleeting fantasy that you're running after indefinitely. _One_ may be the only one you trust to be there when you need them.

Neal takes a deep breath, holds it and lets his tongue tip along his teeth. He lets go and says, "Don't drool on the couch."

There's rustling and a faint, pillow-dampened "_What?_"

Neal exhales the breath he was holding. "I said thank you for saving me."

Peter clears his throat. "If you hadn't called out when-"

"No," Neal interrupts, "that's not what I meant."

Words are tricky. But if you're lucky - and Neal considers himself to be lucky - they don't have to be said. Neal doesn't say anything else and neither does Peter.

The clock says it's two minutes after midnight.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
